


Magic City Wholesale

by jouissant



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Drinking, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2370176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In retrospect, Zach thinks, he probably planned the entire evening around a semiconscious desire for this moment.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic City Wholesale

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from the Waxahatchee song of the same name. You should go listen to _American Weekend_ and cry a whole lot like I do.

_And I feel your eyes, and I stayed inside  
But it wouldn't work so I soak up your vice_

In retrospect, Zach thinks, he probably planned the entire evening around a semiconscious desire for this moment—the time of night when the party’s starting to thin, when people have gone home because they have to pay the sitter, because they’re too drunk and they have to get up early. Those still here are the best of the bunch, he thinks, the people that get him, that get _this._ It’s the only way that he can come to terms with the end of it all. These people, the ones who’ve been with him since the first party he had at this perfect little house, newly flush and bubbling with disbelief at his fortune. It all seems like a hundred years ago now.

Chris is out on the deck staring off into the soft, blueish dark, hands in his pockets like he’s waiting for precisely nothing. Zach wonders if this is why he came, for the same moment. Whether he knows, or if it’s slowly occurring to him the way it has to Zach. 

Miles is in the kitchen, presiding over the late night preparation of something very unhealthy. Zach can see his reflection in the window, the light catching his hair. This house has so much glass. More that he remembers. 

“I’m gonna go smoke,” he starts to say. He doesn’t say it, in the end. He just shoves one hand in his own pocket and uses the other to push the door open. It’s a little humid tonight, and the air clings to him as he steps out into it, like the spirit of this place is trying to keep hold of him somehow, and wow, he really has smoked kind of a lot of weed tonight. 

Zach comes up behind Chris quietly, watching the set of his shoulders relax as Zach draws along side him and feeling a sick clench in his chest that he should really be past. But if he was…well. If he was he’d probably be in the kitchen making Nutella and potato chip sandwiches right now. 

“Hey,” he says.

Chris doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring out at the night. “I always loved this view,” he says. “Right through the trees here. Remember that first summer you were in New York and I was housesitting? I used to come over and trim them back.” 

Zach pulls out his pack, waves it at Chris, who holds up his own fresh cigarette. Zach lights them both, and answers Chris through a hazy exhale.“Seriously? I’m surprised you didn’t, like, careen off the hillside or something.” 

“Yeah, there were a couple near misses. But I’m way better at landscaping now. You should let me come stage the yard.” 

“Sorry, urban harvest’s not exactly the aesthetic I’m going for.” 

“Dude, your loss. You’d be surprised what a little rusticity can do for your whole vibe.” 

“I like my vibe just fine,” Zach says, irritation prickling up his spine the way it does all too frequently these days. 

Beside him, Chris shrugs. “Never said I didn’t.” 

He sighs, taking a long pull off his bottle of beer. It looks warm, like Chris has been nursing it. Zach has the sudden desire to offer to get him another, get back inside, abort abort! He’ll forget to get the beer and Chris will come wandering in a few minutes from now to Zach giggling over the kitchen counter, mouth smeared with chocolate. _So it’s pretty late, man, I’m just gonna—_

Chris leans, letting his shoulder crash softly into Zach’s, a clumsy sway that could just as easily be the beer. “I can’t believe you’re selling it,” Chris says. 

“I know.” 

“End of an era.” 

Zach smiles. “Sure is,” he says. He swallows. “I’m glad you came.” 

“Like I was going to miss the sendoff? I’m just sad I’m not going to be able to get hammered and spend the night on the floor of your guest bathroom. I feel like I had a real connection with this one chipped piece of tile—“ 

Zach snorts. “Oh my god.” 

“I’m not kidding.” 

“I’m sure you aren’t. Except it was the master bath, asshole. I had to lie in bed and listen to you retch for six hours; I was scared to fall asleep because I thought you might actually fucking _die_. Next thing I know it’s five in the morning and you’re snoring on my damn bathroom floor nuzzling the tile.” 

“Oh,” Chris says. 

Their arms are touching; Zach can feel a premonitory tingle running up from the place where skin brushes skin. He should’ve worn long sleeves; he should’ve worn a suit of goddamn armor, but even that has about twenty chinks too many. 

And all they really need is one.

“Was that the night we, um—“ 

Zach looks at the ground. “It was indeed.”

“Fuck,” Chris says. He sighs out a laugh, a useless hiccup of a sound. “Well. Sure fucked that one up, didn’t I?” 

Zach shifts closer, a half a step, not even. “Little bit, yeah.” 

“Zach—“ 

“That was a long time ago, Pine.” He shakes his head, once, tersely. Shut up, shut up, drink your drink. He wants to get back to their maudlin sharing moment. He wants it to be over, wants to get back inside the house to the tinny laughter drifting out from the kitchen. 

“Not that long,” Chris says. Knowing him it’s probably just for the record. Just for the sake of accuracy, because there are certain things, Zach has discovered, that Chris will just not let go, and the chronology of friendships or whatever is one of them. But they’re standing out here together, and it’s late, and he should take the high road. 

“Don’t.” 

“I’m not!” 

_“Don’t.”_

“I didn’t _want_ to. That’s not why—“ Chris sighs. He shakes his own head, clearly thinking better of whatever that train of thought was. He looks sidelong at Zach, then lets his gaze drift to the window beyond, the house glowing, a shoebox diorama come to life. There’s a blur of motion across the living room, a whoop and the blare of music turned on and swiftly muted. 

“Are you happy?” Chris asks. 

Zach stifles the distinct urge to look around, to drag them away from the window and into the shadow of the house, because where they are suddenly feels too central and too well-lit for this exchange. 

“Of course,” Zach says. “And that question’s a fucking trap, you know that, right?” 

Chris rocks back on his heels, rolling his eyes precipitously. “Oh, come on.” 

“It is! You can’t…like, my mother can ask me that and just take the answer at face value. Or, like, Joe. But you—“ 

“But me what?” 

“You know, Chris.” 

“I don’t know shit, apparently,” Chris says. “I thought I was asking a perfectly innocent question about my friend’s overall well-being.” 

“Are _you_?” 

Chris blinks at him. “Am I what?” 

Zach smacks him on the arm. “God, you’re a jerk. Answer the question.” 

Chris shrugs. “Sure I am, Zachary.” 

He sighs theatrically, spins on his heel so they’re facing. His white t-shirt is damp at the armpits, and the neckline’s about twice as low as it probably was originally, and it’s all so violently Chris that it’s maddening. Zach feels possessed by muscle memory, by a precise choreography. He knows all the steps by heart. 

_Of course. Of course I’m happy._

Chris holds up his bottle. 

“Hey,” he says. “This is getting kinda skunky. There more in the fridge?” 

“Sure,” Zach says. “Here, gimme that. I’ll go grab you one.”


End file.
